As the Grapevine Grows
by LornaWinters
Summary: When Lady Guinevere Allaire returns to DS9, Sisko and Garak continue the gossip they started in "Distractions." The grapevine grows with arrival of the Romulan general from Narenda III. As the war with the Dominion heats up, Guinevere must make a choice between her duty and her heart. The sequel to "The Triangle."
1. Chapter 1

"Well, well, well. I can't believe who just strolled into my bar…" Quark poured part of Garak's drink onto the counter instead of into his glass.

"My, my, but aren't we getting a little sloppy, Quark?" Garak remarked, stepping back so that the liquid would not splash onto his shirt. If it were any one else, the Cardassian would have been offended. But, as it was Quark, he was instead amused, knowing that whatever had distracted the Ferengi to that extreme would likely be of interest to him. He turned to the entrance to see just what caused the normally avaricious barkeep to waste his profits so carelessly. "Indeed," Garak noted, also recognizing the visitor.

Quark left Garak alone with his puddle and went over to the other end of the counter where his newly-arrived customer was just sitting down. "Lady Guinevere…" he said, inhaling, "I always knew you would someday return to my fair establishment."

Guinevere Allaire looked up from her PADD as if she had been torn away from a trance. "I'll have a…excuse me?"

"What can I get you, Ms.?" the Ferengi asked in a more businesslike tone.

"Oh, Monsieur Quark," she laughed lightheartedly, "I was distracted. Do forgive me."

"To you, my pretty lady," he said, bearing his pointy teeth, "it's 'Quark,' and there's nothing to forgive."

"You are very kind, Quark. I'll have a shot of whiskey, please."

The bartender stared at her in surprise. "That isn't your usual poison, _cherie_, or have your tastes changed so quickly in only a few months?"

Guinevere sighed. "I'm not here for a casual drink," she admitted.

Without taking his eyes off his lovely client, Quark reached for a glass and bottle from under the counter. "To tell the truth, you look a little nervous," he solicited, as he poured her drink—this time without spilling a drop. "Is everything ok?"

"Oh, yes," she said as calmly as she could manage, though she was so obviously desperate to confide in somebody. "It's just that I have to present a report to the Alliance war council in fifteen minutes. So, yes, I suppose I am just a little nervous."

"That is a tough crowd," he sympathized. "But, you've chosen the right drink for that. That's why it's called 'courage in a bottle.' I'm sure you'll do fine."

"I hope so," she said bravely, as she shot back her drink.

"You will," Quark assured her, waving his hand. "And for a woman as beautiful as you, that was on the house."

"Really?" she asked, momentarily forgetting about her jitters. "Forgive my presumption, but I was not aware that Ferengi were inclined to be so generous," she said, raising her dark eyebrow cautiously.

Quark chuckled suggestively. "Oh, we can be many things," he said, leaning closer to her, "and if you would put your dashing—but absent—Romulan commander aside for a while, I'll show you just what I can be to you."

"Look at the time!" she blurted. "Thank you for the drink, Quark," she called as she dashed out.

Disappointed, but not entirely surprised, Quark threw the rag he was holding into the trash receptacle. "You're welcome. Well, it was worth a try," he sighed.

"If you're quite finished making a spectacle of yourself," Garak taunted from the other end of the bar, "I'd like my beverage now, if it's not too much trouble."


	2. Chapter 2

Captain Benjamin Sisko tried to listen attentively as Lady Allaire delivered her report on the status of the Nua Breizhian forces. In all honesty, he was more interested in what was going on in her personal life. Only a few months before, he, along with Garak and Ezri had speculated about a possible romance between her and the Romulan Commander Bochra. In fact, Bochra's reaction to the mention of the Lady Allaire's planet was what got Sisko started on the whole silly thing. Sisko was desperate to think of something else—anything else—other than the war.

At his side sat Admiral Ross and Worf. General Martok, as usual, represented the Klingons. Senator Letant of Romulus was present. Most notably, the Romulan General Radek, whom the Romulans considered to be the hero of Narendra III, also sat at the table. The Klingons, on the other hand, saw him as the butcher of Narendra III. Because the _Enterprise-C_ came to the Klingon's aid during the attack, the Federation and the Klingons were able to make peace.

And here they all were, sitting down together. It was yet another ironic moment in history, Sisko mused. Unfortunately, for the Klingons and Romulans, it was more difficult to see it that way, especially with a living reminder of that particular event right in front of their faces. More so than usual, Sisko and Ross had to keep the allies focused on the task at hand instead of constantly bickering with each other.

What was intriguing to Sisko now was that Lady Allaire and the Romulan representatives were obviously already acquainted. From what Garak had told him about her the last time she was on the station, it was not surprising. Even more curious was a recognizable tension between her and General Radek. That made Sisko begin to wonder. It looked like it was shaping up to be another fascinating "distraction." He made a mental note for later and then returned his attention back to talking shop.

Things were not going well for Nua Breizh. The planet had sustained heavy losses after the recent Jem'Hadar siege. More ships were being constructed, however, and the Bretons would continue to carry their share of the load. They intended to continue to defend their planet, along with the nearby Ximenta and Berezi systems. It was a relatively small area of space, but it was one less area of front for the Allies to worry about.

"Are you sure your defenses in those areas can hold?" Admiral Ross asked.

"They will hold, Admiral," Lady Allaire promised assuredly. Sisko noticed that she had changed somewhat since her last visit to DS9. She was more serious and resolute, hardened. She was no less of an attractive woman, but like so many other people, her innocence had been claimed by the war. She no longer wore her hair down, but kept it confined at the nape of her neck. Only a single jet-dark ringlet escaped at her right temple. Her cool, cinnamon-colored eyes revealed to Sisko that she had likely experienced a recent personal tragedy. It was not surprising, considering the Jem'Hadar had just attempted to invade her world.

"I'm confused as to why your brothers sent you," General Martok said, not sharing her certitude.

"For the very reason that they could not be spared from maintaining our lines of defense, of course," she answered evenly.

"You say the lines can hold, but what do you know about war?" the Klingon's eyes narrowed. "Your people don't allow females in battle."

"I respectfully remind you, General, that your people do not allow females to lead your Empire," she countered, still keeping a cool composure. "Despite our traditions, I am well aware of what occurs in a combat situation, and I will again repeat that the defenses will hold."

Sisko exchanged glances with Ross. They both were thinking of the rumors they had heard about Lady Allaire disguising herself as a soldier in order to take part in the struggle against the Dominion raid on her home. Sisko rolled his baseball in his palms. "Martok," he said, "I think she knows what she's talking about." The Klingon discontinued his vocal objections, but it was clear that he still did not agree.

Senator Letant usually took any and every opportunity to counter Martok. But this time, he was for once in agreement with his Klingon colleague. "You are not concerned about the high casualties you are likely to incur?" he asked skeptically.

"We are prepared, Senator," she answered.

It was then that Radek spoke up for the first time in the meeting. Sisko nearly started, as he had been wondering if this would happen. "But there will be a considerable loss of life, surely you can see that?" the Romulan said to her.

Lady Allaire met his eyes with absolute confidence. "'War burns,' General," she said, quoting part of an old Romulan proverb.

"Indeed it does, Lady," he agreed. "And let us hope your physical strength can match your determination."

"Mark my words, it will," she said unflinchingly.

"Consider them marked," he said, continuing the inquisition. "But as I recall, you needed the help of Romulan forces to defend your planet."

"For which, we are very grateful, I assure you. And should your government ever offer any further assistance, it will certainly not be refused," she said, holding her ground. "Either way, those systems will _not_ fall to the enemy, not while there is still breath in the lungs of our people. If you doubt our abilities, _Gentlemen_," she said, turning to each of them, "perhaps you should just fortify those areas yourselves." Everyone else in the room was silent, for they knew that her suggestion was not possible, as their forces were already stretched thinly.

"Your concerns are understandable," she admitted to the assemblage. "We have a plan to acquire more recruits."

"From where?" Martok was taken aback.

"My cousins. You see, General, when we left Earth three hundred years ago, a sizable number of Basques came with us and helped to found Nua Breizh. Over the years, we had our differences, but we managed to work them out through marriages and compromises. But, thirty years ago, there was a…disagreement. It nearly turned into a civil war. In the end my grandfather banished my uncle, along with his family and most of the other Basques. I intend to heal that rift."

"And what makes you think they will want to help you? How do you know they do not just want to sit and wait the war out?" Radek had to get in one last jab.

Lady Allaire paused, as though calculating how she should proceed. "They are Maquis," she said charily.

"And you didn't tell us about them?" Ross demanded indignantly.

"Admiral," she said, crossing her arms, "I may fight my cousins in a blood feud, but I would never betray them to the Federation. Which brings me to why I mentioned this in the first place. In order to convince them to help, they will want reassurances that they will not be hunted down like the others when the war is over."

"Alright," Ross said, exhaling. Sisko could tell that the admiral was getting used to these kinds of compromises, but he still did not like them. "I'll obtain a full pardon for them from the Federation Council."

The lady smiled with satisfaction. "Thank you, Admiral," she said triumphantly.

Sisko chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "So you're part Basque, are you?"

"I do not possess as much of the ancient blood as my cousins," she disclosed, "but yes."

Sisko grinned simultaneously with Ross. He realized that the admiral also was trying not to openly laugh.

Allaire was puzzled. "Why is that funny?"

A single, but ever so slight snicker escaped from Ross' lips, "If I may be so bold, my Lady, it explains a lot." Lady Allaire raised an eyebrow of minor annoyance in response.

"What does it explain?" Martok voiced what the other non-humans in the room must have been wondering as they observed the dialogue.

Sisko did a better job of keeping his voice from cracking. "The Basques have the reputation of being an aggressive, fiery people," he explained with unsuppressed amusement, "and they're always looking for a fight."

"A lady does not start a fight, Captain," Allaire corrected with a thin smile, "but she can damn well finish one." With this statement, she managed to finally reclaim the old charisma that Sisko remembered from last time he met her. The tension in the room seemed to dissipate, and everyone relaxed a little. Both the Klingons and the Romulans now seemed less inclined to harbor cynical opinions of her. In fact, Sisko thought he saw a slight twinge of admiration in their faces. General Radek's expression, however, was an unreadable mask.

"Now, if there are no further questions, Gentlemen, and _Lady_" she said, smiling to a female Romulan Senator—the only other woman present-"I will take my leave of you until our next meeting. Thank you for your time." With that, she gathered her materials and left.

General Martok suddenly burst into boisterous laughter, startling everyone else in the room. "What a woman! Ha, ha! I don't know anything about 'Basques,' but I'd say she has Klingon blood! Worf, you should introduce her to your son."

Worf was not amused, and chose to ignore the comment. Sisko knew it was because the younger Klingon did not believe it to be an appropriate topic for the business at hand. More importantly, Martok was obviously ignorant of Lady Allaire's previous marriage to a Romulan official, as well as the speculations about her latest possible suitor. No doubt Worf would clarify matters privately with the leader of his adopted House at a later time. Part of Sisko wanted to be a fly on the wall when it happened. But the other half of him cringed at the thought of the possible ways that conversation could go down.

"How romantic," Senator Letant commented with a sarcastic smirk. He was keenly aware of Worf's discomfort, and of Martok's likely reaction when he was informed of his mistake.

General Radek, on the other hand, remained silent. Sisko could not help wondering what he was thinking. Naturally, he was inclined to think that it had something to do with his shaky acquaintance with Lady Allaire. Indubitably, he intended to find out.

* * *

Lady Allaire's arrival on Deep Space Nine caused quite a stir among those of the crew who had met her a few months previously. Like Sisko, the hands at Ops were looking for a simple diversion to break up the otherwise gloomy monotony.

"It's really surprising, I mean, a Romulan officer falling in love with a human lady. It's not what you'd expect to ever hear about," Ezri mused sentimentally. "But I saw the way he looked at her. He's really in love with her."

Kira laughed. "I guess I never thought of Romulans as being very romantic, either. I wonder what it is that draws him to her—don't misunderstand me, she's very pretty. I've never actually thought about what makes Romulans tick. What do you think, Chief?"

"I don't know," O'Brien said defensively, "I didn't even meet the man. Worf knows more about him than I do—he's the one who escorted him off the _Enterprise_."

The entire staff turned to Worf. "So, what do you think, Worf?" Kira prodded impatiently.

"I have no interest in the personal lives of Romulan commanders!" the Klingon growled as he tried to concentrate on his work.

"Somehow, I knew you'd say that," Ezri teased.

Odo entered through the lift doors. "As a former security officer yourself, I would have thought you'd have a vested interest in everyone's personal lives," he commented dryly.

"With all of this incessant gossiping, I already am aware of more than I ever needed or cared to know," he said through gritted teeth.

"Why are you so on edge, Worf?" Kira asked.

"I am not 'on edge!'" he yelled.

"Could have fooled me," Odo commented sarcastically.

Sisko all the while was sitting in his office with the doors open. He had at first chosen not to take part in the conversation, preferring instead to listen to what his subordinates knew about the matter. But now, since Worf was clearly upset, and Sisko knew why, he thought he should join in. "Worf, I don't think Martok was serious about introducing her to your son," he said sincerely.

"Oh, is that what it's all about?" O'Brien said. "The captain's right, you know. General Martok just got a bit overenthusiastic. That's all. It's his way. I doubt he was serious."

Worf exhaled. "I know you are right," he said softly, contrasting his earlier volume. "It's just, the thought of my son getting involved with a woman who was once the mate of a Romulan…upsets me."

"I don't think you have to worry about that," said Kira chuckling. "Commander Bochra would have a thing or two to say about it if Lady Allaire gets involved with _any_ other man."

Odo smiled with amusement. "I do seem to recall that he observed her very closely when she danced with Doctor Bashir in Quark's," he agreed, continuing the conversation, while subtly taking the spotlight off of Worf's son.

O'Brien laughed, and kept the talk going in the direction that Odo had tactfully implied. "Couldn't you just seem him challenging Julian to duel, Romulan-style?"

The crew laughed, except Worf. He was still upset over the death of Jadzia. Anytime romance was mentioned, he would grow silent. Sisko remembered that he had felt the same way for a long time after his own wife, Jennifer, was killed. If his own experience was any gauge, it would be a while before Worf would be able to get back to a normal life. In the meantime, the Klingon was probably going to harbor a silent grudge against Lady Allaire until another scapegoat came along.

"What exactly is 'Romulan-style'?" Ezri asked playfully.

"I don't know," the chief snickered, "I just made it up." His response produced another round of laughter. "Keiko says we're being very mean, you know," he continued. "She says we should leave those poor two alone," he said, pretending to agree with his wife's suggestion.

Sisko laughed as he threw his baseball up in the air. "Not on your life, we're having too much fun," he said, catching the ball. So they did not know anything about General Radek. Sisko would keep his reflections to himself for the moment. At least until there was more information on the subject. And he had one good lead. He decided that Kasidy needed a new dress.


	3. Chapter 3

"What makes you so sure I'm not just shopping for Kasidy?" Captain Benjamin Sisko said, trying not to appear as eager as he felt. The truth was that he had gone to Garak's shop as soon as he left Ops.

"Because, Captain," the tailor responded knowingly, "I have already seen her in Quark's today."

"You did? And you didn't tell me?" Sisko asked, annoyed that he was going to have to sing for information again. And worse, Garak did not even have to mention her name; they both knew exactly who he was talking about.

"You didn't ask," Garak said with a professional smile. "Besides, you were tied up in a meeting and couldn't be reached anyway."

Sisko was about to deliver a clever and sarcastic bombshell of a comeback when his son Jake entered the shop. "Dad!" he said, "I've been looking all over for you. You'll never guess who just came back to the station." Sisko moaned inwardly.

Garak chuckled and moved aside to allow Jake to speak with his father. "Lady Guinevere Allaire of Nua Breizh!" he said with the dreamy countenance of a writer.

"Yes, I was in a meeting with her this morning," the elder Sisko said impassively.

"Isn't she the most pulchritudinous woman you've ever seen?" the adolescent reporter asked, proud of his extensive vocabulary.

"Mr. Sisko," said Garak, all joking aside, "one man has already lost his life over her, and another has killed for her. She is an enticing woman, to be sure. But I prefer to admire her from a distance. I would advise you to do the same, if you know what's good for you. And no, you may not quote me on that," he warned.

"That's funny you should say that, Mr. Garak," the younger Sisko said. "Nog told me that a Romulan officer-you know, the one who was talking to her in Quark's-is going to challenge Dr. Bashir to a duel the next time he comes back to the station. Apparently," Jake said, raising his eyebrows as he lowered his voice, "he didn't like it that the doctor cut in while he was dancing with her. You know how jealous Romulans can be."

The captain rolled his eyes. Jake really needed to learn to control his over-active imagination. He did not know whether to laugh hysterically or scold his son for this latest absurdity.

Garak shook his head. "I know for a fact that at least part of your story is not accurate, Jake. Romulans don't dance."

"They don't?" he asked, disappointed.

"No, they don't," Sisko repeated, pointing, "and you had better not put any of that other nonsense in your paper, or you'll be in big trouble, son."

"Dad, you know me," Jake said, raising his hands in surprise, "I don't write about stuff like that." With that, he left before any further dampers could be placed on his creativity.

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, as you humans say," said Garak. "Now what was it you wanted, Captain?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You want information about Lady Allaire, too, don't you?" the tailor asked innocently. "Isn't that why you're here?"

Sisko could no longer control himself. "Alright, fine. We'll do it your way, Garak. I just wanted to know what her conflict with General Radek is all about."

"Ah," the Cardassian said with relish, "that _is_ an interesting story. Radek is the father of Bochra's late superior officer."

"The one he assassinated?"

"The same. But I will say no more at the moment. Perhaps when Radek leaves the station, I may tell you the rest of the story. He, like his daughter, is dangerous. It is another case of the apple not falling far from the tree, you could say."

Sisko knew Garak well enough by then to see that he would get nothing else out of the tailor at that time. "Thank you, Mr. Garak."

"Anytime, Captain. Oh, and don't forget Kasidy's dress on your way out."

The captain wagged his head in annoyance. Garak always seemed to have the upper hand. He snatched the dress, and left the shop.

* * *

Guinevere inevitably found herself back in Quark's Bar after the meeting. To Quark, her expression said it all. "Another whiskey?" the bartender asked, deliberately forgetful of his unsuccessful pass at her.

"Make it two," she groaned.

"That bad, huh? I'm sorry your report didn't go the way you planned."

"Oh, it went the way I expected it to," she said, squinting her eyes as she downed the first shot. "I just ran into someone I really didn't want to see."

"Did you now? By the way, these are _not_ on the house, just so we understand each other," the Ferengi politely informed her. "So what lousy jerk has made you so upset, Lady Guinevere?"

She waved a hand at him, telling him that she was not concerned about the drinks. "You really want to know?" she asked.

Quark poured her another drink. "Well, you could either tell me, your friendly bartender," he said casually, "or you could go find yourself a Federation shrink. We've got plenty of them around here."

Guinevere laughed heartily at the barkeep's remark. It was tempting. "Let's just say it was a relative of somebody who ruined my life and leave it at that, shall we?"

Quark raised his hands. "Ok, suit yourself. But you know where to find me if you change your mind, sweetie." The bartender withdrew to wait on his other customers.

Guinevere did her best to ignore the other people as she tried to sort through the issues that were plaguing her. General Radek's constant challenges to every single one of her points in the meeting had severely miffed her. She was barely able to contain her anger when she left the briefing room. She hoped it did not show as much as she felt it. Her lack of sleep during the last few weeks did not help matters.

_Certain it is and sure: love burns, ale burns, fire burns, war burns, and politics burns. But cold is life without them__._ She turned the old adage she had cited to Radek over in her mind. It seemed to be the story of her own life. Her existence was definitely not a boring one, but she was beginning to wonder whether it was better to burn or to freeze.

_Love burns_—that was the hardest one of them all. Her husband, Tævek, was dead, assassinated by Radek's daughter six years previously. Her most loyal friend had given his life for her, professing his esoteric love just before he died. _Poor Stefan_, she found herself thinking, as she had thought countless times for the last month since he died. She genuinely cared for both Tævek and Stefan, but she was unable to return their love to the same degree, even though she felt they both had deserved it.

And then there was Bochra, the man who had completely swept her off her feet. He was the man she truly loved. He was the man for whom she burned. And she was terribly worried about him. He had not written at all since he left Nua Breizh the month before.

She knew from the reports that Dominion was keeping the Romulan fleet quite busy those days. As a commander of an imperial warbird, he probably did not have the opportunity to send letters. For security reasons, the Romulans understandably did not reveal specific details about the fleet to their lesser allies. What if he was wounded, floating somewhere alone in an escape pod, or—dare she think it—dead? How would she know? Guinevere wanted to see her intrepid hero again more than anything, if only for a moment.

On top of it all, there was a formidable choice ahead, which loomed over her, as a towering and dark tidal wave approaches a person standing on the shore. She was not too terribly worried about convincing her cousin to help her. The dilemma was, what price would she have to pay? Which was to take precedence: her responsibility to her people, or her tempestuous heart? Her will, disciplined by a lifetime of cultivation, was decidedly the stronger. But her fiery nature was intense and difficult to tame. Could the two ever be reconciled? She had never encountered a seeming impasse such as this before she met Bochra.

_Love burns_. She finished her whiskey. It would be prudent to quit this line of thinking, as it would surely lead to tears. She was in public, and did not have that luxury at the moment. Though she would never admit it to anyone, her pillow would be moistened again that night. _Radek would simply wallow in that knowledge_, she thought with disgust.

As she lowered her drink, she sighted the insufferable cad through the glass as he entered the establishment. She nearly choked. He likewise noticed her, and made his way over. Rage filled her heart as he saluted her. "Lady Allaire," he nodded civilly, "may I buy you another drink?"

She was taken aback. "Why?" she inquired suspiciously. Did he intend to poison her right here in public?

The general smiled ever so slightly. It was the first time she had ever seen him do that. "I am curious about you," he admitted.

"You want to know if I killed your daughter," she said bluntly. "As much as I would like to take the credit, I regretfully cannot."

"I believe you," he said knowingly. "May I sit down?"

Guinevere cursed herself for having had three shots of whiskey. It was beginning to affect her, because she could not think of a reason to refuse him. He practically ambushed her when he said he was convinced of her innocence. She shrugged, and the Romulan sat down. He ordered two more shots.

"Not much of a drink," the elder commented after he tasted it. "Romulan ale is stronger."

"Just wait a few minutes," she attested. "So what do you want, General?"

"I understand now why I dislike you," he said.

"Oh?" she queried sarcastically.

"It is because you were loyal to Tævek," he said intently. "As you know, Sela's mother was human. She betrayed us both. My Tasha would never have done for me what you did for Tævek. In fact, you are everything she was not."

Guinevere knew enough about Romulan culture and social life to know that constrained marriages were unheard of. Tævek had wholly insisted upon her assurance that she marry him of her own free will. So Radek's claim that this Tasha had betrayed him was likely to be true. It was a most unfortunate affair. "I am truly sorry," she said, this time without any acrimony. She considerately left out her own opinion that he should not have set his sights on a Starfleet prisoner. After all, she was well aware that falling in love was not always a choice.

"I had nothing to do with your consort's death," the Romulan informed her. "And had I known, I would have advised against it. It was ill-timed and poorly planned." He shook his head. "Sela knew this, which is probably why she did not tell me."

Guinevere was silently skeptical. What he was saying could be true, but it could just as likely be a deception. It was difficult for her to get over her prejudice that this man was the father of her husband's murderer.

Sensing her thoughts, he added, "I don't blame you for not trusting me," he said, "you are wise not to." He ordered two more drinks, Romulan ales this time. "May I ask how you and Tævek came to be bonded?"

_Why not?_ she thought irascibly. "When your government's ambassador to my planet retired, Tævek was sent to replace him. There was an instant attraction between us. My brothers noticed it, and without my knowledge, a betrothal was arranged."

Radek raised a disapproving eyebrow, but said nothing.

"They informed me about the match in Tævek's presence. Apparently, he thought I was already aware of it during the negotiations. I was furious. My brother demanded that I obey him; I insisted that I would only marry a man of my own choosing. But, by our laws, the engagement could not be broken."

"I will not believe that Tævek forced you," the Romulan said with leeriness.

"He didn't," the lady affirmed. "Instead, he offered me his life. He said that I could kill him and therefore, I would not be bound to him against my will. He assured me that there would be no consequences for my actions. Or, I could spare his life and marry him. Either way, the choice would be mine. It was then that I realized I wanted to be the wife of such a valorous man. So I accepted him. You already know the rest of the story."

"If I had given that proposal to Tasha, she probably would have killed me," the general reflected sadly. "Did you love him?"

Still distrustful, Guinevere responded, "We knew each other for only three months. Given more time, I am certain that I would have grown to love him. But that chance was taken from me. So you will have to excuse me if I don't shed any tears over your daughter's demise. Whoever is responsible did me a great favor."

Radek disregarded her bitterness, as he was more interested in her last sentence. "You mean to tell me that you do not know who did it?" he asked with suspicion.

The lady crossed her arms. "The only person I think of was in a penal colony at the time," she deluded.

The general did not buy it. "I think the answer should be obvious to you, Lady."

"Commander Bochra," she admitted after a moment, intently watching for the general's reaction. The elder nodded. "I suppose he did rise to his rank rather quickly," she considered.

"He did not do it for a promotion," Radek averred. "Bochra is ambitious, but he is not _that_ ambitious. Murder is not his typical instrument of choice for advancement. He did it for you. Because he is enamored with you. Surely you can see that."

Guinevere suddenly felt a sense of foreboding gloom manifest itself in her heart. "And now you're going to kill him, aren't you? Is that what you came to tell me, General?" she demanded hotly.

He paused for an interval, allowing her suspense to mount before he gave his answer. "I am not a cruel man, Lady Allaire," he responded after he was satisfied that she had waited long enough. "Besides," he said as he rose, "the Dominion will more than likely save me the trouble. _Jolan true_, Lady," he nodded formally.

_What a detestable man_, she thought as he exited. He was undoubtedly Sela's father. Not as bad as his daughter was, but still offensive. All things considered, though, his acridness was plausible. He was a man who had suffered much, and Guinevere realized that she actually felt compassion for him. Still, she desperately hoped he was sincere when he alluded that he had no intentions of retaliation toward Bochra.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks a million to 0afan****0! Much obliged to you for your reviews, ideas, and encouragement. And to "A friend of Quark," that's amusing to be sure, but I'm not inclined to make that happen. Thanks for the review! Anyone else who reads this, I would greatly appreciate a review. Thanks in advance!**_  
_

_My beautiful lady,_

_It has been a month since we parted, yet it has seemed to me like forever. My hope is that this letter finds you safe and well. Be assured that I am in good health and, aside from being deprived of your inspiring presence, good spirits._

_You are always in my thoughts, encouraging me to be valiant, and I am determined not to disappoint you. Each night when I close my eyes, I think of the times we spent together. You are truly the most magnificent woman I have ever known._

_I look forward to the day when my duties will once again bring me to your side. Until then, I must be content with your memory._

_Your admiring captive,_

_Bochra_

Commander Bochra of the Imperial Romulan Warbird _Greenclaw_ peered carefully at the viewscreen, tapping his fingers quietly on the arm of his chair. The stars twinkled against the backdrop of the eternal night of space. In front of his ship was an asteroid field, where his enemy was hiding. He had been pursuing his prey for nearly two days. The Jem'Hadar were out there, he could feel it. This day, he would confront them, once and for all.

"_Come out, you Black n' Tans, come out and fight me like a man…_" he said in a low voice.

"Commander?" His first officer, Subcommander Donatra, cocked her head quizzically.

"Oh," he chuckled softly, "a song I heard the Nua Breizhians singing in that Ferengi's bar on DS9."

"How intriguing," she considered. Donatra had stayed with the ship the entire time they were docked at DS9, so she had only heard about Quark's establishment.

"Yes," Bochra agreed, remembering the spirited woman who sang the tune. He recalled vividly how her brunette hair descended down her back and about her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed with laughter and ale as she strummed her instrument. Her beautiful, fiery eyes sparkled as she dauntlessly held his gaze. If she ever looked at any other man like that, it would destroy him. Surely she was aware of the breadth of his endearment, how she had captivated him as no other woman could have?

He had written a total of five times to her in the past month, but the correspondence was still sitting on his desk, unsent. Though he was under stealth orders, he hoped to soon find an opportunity to send his letters to that exceptional dame. When his letters did finally reach her, he deemed that they would please her. Writing to a human woman was indeed different from writing to a Romulan woman. Bochra had been aware of this inevitability, and had scoured Guinevere's books for insight while she was recovering from her nearly fatal injuries. She had an extensive library in her bedchamber, so his investigation had been profitable and enlightening.

His mind traveled back to the last time he saw her. Her "dashing and charming Commander Bochra," she had called him. How his heartbeat had escalated when she said those words!

The commander tore his thoughts away from the enticing reverie. He was hunting the Jem'Hadar at the moment. Distractions such as those could be fatal.

"Commander," the pilot turned, "I am detecting a signal on the other side of the asteroid belt. It's coming from the Jem'Hadar we've been following."

"Excellent," Bochra said, half to himself. "They will not escape us this time," he vowed audibly. "Battle stations!" _For Guinevere_, he silently roused himself.

* * *

"I'm so jealous!" Nog whined, slamming the top of the control console with his fists.

"I can't understand why," O'Brien countered, "you haven't seen how cramped the quarters on a Breton ship are. They make the _Defiant_ look like a luxury cruiser."

"Still," said Bashir, "you'll be getting the chance to bond with your 'Celtic brethren,' Miles. It will be quite an experience for you," he said, with a twinge of envy.

"The chief is the best man for the job," Sisko insisted. "He has experience in dealing with the Maquis, as well as the closest cultural connection we have to these people. They're more likely to trust you than anyone else on this station, Chief."

"Let's hope it's enough to convince the Basques to help," said O'Brien.

"They do not trust anyone, because they are treacherous themselves," Worf mumbled acrimoniously from his station. "Just like the Romulans." Everyone else at Ops paid no heed to Worf's opinion, however.

"Well, Chief," Ezri said slyly, "you'll have to let us know if you find out any more gossip."

"Yes!" Nog clamored, "You have to tell us everything. Even the most miniscule details."

"Are you kidding?" the chief laughed. "That's half the reason I accepted the assignment in the first place!"

"Just make sure you successfully carry out the mission," Sisko warned. "But a little lagniappe is always appreciated, as long as it's off the record," he added with a grin.

* * *

"That fabric will cost a pretty penny," Garak said, recognizing the middle-aged Romulan examining it.

"If it is for the right woman," he asserted, "it is well worth the price."

"Any particular woman?" the tailor asked, his interest tickled. "A lot of men seem to have an interest in ladies' clothing today," he mused.

"Indeed?" the Romulan said wryly. "I wonder if your talent for sewing matches your skill at growing Edosian orchids?"

"I couldn't say," the Cardassian deluded, though he knew by this point that General Radek had also identified him. "They are especially rare these days, and are not widely grown on Cardassia anymore, due to the climate change."

"But at one time," Radek persisted, "a Cardassian gardener for the embassy on Romulus managed to grow them quite successfully. Several 'unexpected' deaths occurred among government and military personnel while he was there, as I recall. My daughter was one of them," he pried as he moved closer, looming menacingly over Garak.

"Some flowers fare better than others, General," Garak replied smoothly. "I'm only a simple tailor, and therefore have no comprehension of such matters."

'Hmm," Radek snorted skeptically, "you had better be telling the truth, Cardassian. Because if I find out you are lying, you know what will happen to you," he warned.

"How fortunate for me that I am telling the truth," Garak said with feigned relief.

"We will see," the Romulan uttered precariously. With that, stormed out of the tailor's shop, as indecisive of Garak's culpability as he had been when he entered.

* * *

Chief Miles O'Brien kissed his wife and children goodbye at the docking port. He hated leaving his family, but at the same time, he was excited about his mission. It was up to him to convince the Basques that the Federation's promise of amnesty was sincere. He knew that this task would be no cake walk. But it could not be any harder than when he had to convince his former rogue captain, Benjamin Maxwell, to surrender to the _Enterprise_.

Despite his complaints about the accommodations, and he _did_ had legitimate objections, he was thrilled at the chance to spend more time with the Bretons. They were kin to the Irish, after all, even if they were only distant kin.

As he boarded the warship _Charles Martel_, he sighted Capitaine Heranal waiting to welcome him. What luck! They had only made a brief acquaintance, as there were many other people to meet and socialize with at the party in Quark's. But O'Brien recalled wishing that he could have talked longer with the Breton warrior.

"Welcome aboard, Chief O'Brien," Heranal said with a warm smile. "I regret that we did not have more time to converse when we first were introduced." His accent was so thick that it could have been cut with a knife.

"I look forward to rectifying that, Capitaine," the Irishman replied, returning the smile. He was pleased that Heranal remembered to call him "Chief."

"As do I," he agreed. The Breton was about O'Brien's age, perhaps a couple of years younger. He was tall and powerfully built, with closely-cropped light brown hair and sagacious blue eyes. His thin mustache struck O'Brien as being almost stereotypically French. "You have a beautiful family," he said as they walked through the narrow corridors.

"Thanks," the chief said proudly, "What about you?"

"I have three sons and two daughters," he said happily, "and their mother is the most beautiful woman in the galaxy—I don't care what they say about Lady Guinevere," he stated with a wink. The two men laughed. "But do not misunderstand me, my sovereign is very lovely." He checked to make sure no one else was in earshot, then lowered his voice anyway, "It pissed me off when my lords gave her to the Romulan ambassador, and that they relied on the Romulans to provide a bodyguard."

"They really did that?" O'Brien pretended to be shocked.

"Yes, they did. All because of the rift with the Basques. I told them no good would come of it. But what does a _péon_ like me know?" O'Brien's jaw dropped when Heranal whipped out a cigarette and lit it. He offered one to his companion, which was politely refused, then continued venting his frustrations. "It was beastly. And what do you think happened, huh? Exactly what I knew would happen. Those pointy-eared bastards tried to kill her. If you ask me, they should have done this a long time ago."

O'Brien did not understand. "Done what?"

"As the only ruling female," Heranal explained as he waved his hands about, exhaling the smoke, "they should have given her to the grandson of Ramiro Loiola the Basque in the first place."

The engineer suppressed a cough. "Wait. Are you telling me she's going to have to marry this Loiola fellow in exchange for help in fighting the war?"

Heranal nodded. "That is the usual way of creating family alliances."

"So what if you don't have a man and a woman who can get married? Is there no other way to reunite families then?" O'Brien tried not to show how absurd he thought all of this was.

"If there is no daughter or sister available, then the two men cut their hands and squeeze them together until the blood mingles. Blood must merge for families to join. It is our way. Here are your quarters. If you'll excuse me, I must take the ship out. We'll talk more at _souper_, _mon ami_," he said, slapping O'Brien on the shoulder.

A crewmember paged Heranal. The captain acknowledged and hurried down the hall, swearing like a sailor. O'Brien humorously noted that Heranal had what he considered to be a very French habit of using excessive foul language. He liked Heranal. He was genuine, honest, and open. He could tell that they were going to be good friends.

Even better, O'Brien had just gotten his hands on his first juicy tidbit of scuttlebutt to share with the gang on DS9. But part of him felt sad about the revelation. Lady Guinevere was going to have to marry another man she did not know, even though she was in love with Commander Bochra. O'Brien honestly could not fathom what she saw in the Romulan, but he did not see a reason why she should not be allowed to marry the man she truly loved. And what would Bochra's reaction be? That Loiola guy had better watch out, or the chief had a suspicion that he might end up like Bochra's commander.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you 0afan0—you are my inspiration! And thank you to BewilderedFemale, LIveLikeAnArtist, and "a reader" for your reviews!**

After dinner, O'Brien headed for the bridge to familiarize himself with his assigned station. His head was swimming slightly from the drinks—alcohol, not synthehol—and the cigarette smoke. He was surprised that the fire-suppression systems had not gone off. Then he wondered if they were even present. The Breton drinking songs he had just learned were spinning around in his head like a merry-go-round. How did these people function like this?

Mercifully, there was coffee on the bridge. It was strong, too, just the way he liked it. His head began to clear a bit after he took a few sips. There was plenty of time to learn his way around before they would encounter any hostile vessels.

Then he noticed that the pilot was studying him. He was an adolescent lad. _He can't be a day over fifteen_, O'Brien thought. They were recruiting them that young? Or probably the youth lied about his age so that he, too, would have the chance to fight for his home. With the manpower shortage the Nua Breizhians were experiencing, it was easy to see why they would turn a blind eye to such things.

"I'm Chief O'Brien," he introduced himself.

"Armel," the boy said.

"You think you could show me the ropes around here, Armel?" the chief asked.

"_Assurémont_," he beamed, and proceeded to show O'Brien how to work the controls.

* * *

The next morning, O'Brien was up at the same time as his bunkmates, one of whom turned out to be Armel. The other was a much older man named Richard. They were both very specific about how his name was to be pronounced. It was "Reeshard," not Richard, they insisted. _Frogs_, thought O'Brien.

After breakfast, they all went to their stations. This experience reminded O'Brien of the ancient sailing vessels he had read about. The Nua Breizhians even used some of the old nautical terms, such as "steady as she goes." When he got back to DS9, he would definitely have to create a sailing vessel holoprogram with Bashir.

When he entered the bridge, Lady Guinevere and Capitaine Heranal were having a discussion in Breton. Upon noticing their guest's arrival, they politely switched to Federation Standard English.

"I didn't get the chance to thank you for accepting this assignment, Chief," Lady Guinevere smiled warmly.

"Don't mention it, Milady," O'Brien answered. He took his position at the engineering station.

"We will arrive at the co-ordinates in two and a half hours, Capitaine," Armel reported.

"Very good, Mr. Armel, steady as she goes," Heranal responded.

Everything was smooth sailing for about two of those hours. Then a couple of Jem'Hadar ships were detected. "They are closing in on our position, Capitaine," said the crewman.

"Beat to quarters," Heranal ordered calmly.

* * *

"We have lost all weapons and warp engines. Only minimal life support and one impulse engine remaining, sir," O'Brien reported. They had managed to destroy one of the enemy vessels, but they unfortunately had entered the confrontation outnumbered and outgunned.

Capitaine Heranal turned to face Guinevere. She nodded to tell him that they were in agreement. "Pilot…Ram them," he said through gritted teeth, "Send them to hell!" He lit a cigarette. The chief thought about asking for one himself.

"Capitaine!" exclaimed Armel, "A Romulan warbird is decloaking directly in front of us."

"Cancel that last order," he said quickly. All who were present on the bridge watched as the warbird fired on and destroyed the remaining Jem'Hadar ship in one fell swoop.

"What ship is she?" Guinevere asked, her heart racing.

"They identify themselves as the _Greenclaw_, Milady," came the response. "They are hailing."

"Answer them," Heranal said, extinguishing the roll. The viewscreen blurred from the debris of the enemy vessels to the familiar face of the warbird's commander. "I am Capitaine Heranal of the warship _Charles Martel_. Am I addressing Commander Bochra?"

"You are, Capitaine," the Romulan answered with a nod and a thin smile.

"On behalf of myself and my sovereign, Lady Guinevere, I thank you, Commander," Heranal said, as his patroness stepped into viewing range.

The Romulan commander's cheeks darkened, "Guinevere," he said softly, reacting to the proverbial curveball that had just been thrown at him. O'Brien grinned to himself. _He really does have it bad_, he thought. The commander quickly recovered from his stupefaction, however, and renewed his thin smile. "You seem to have a formed a habit of getting into trouble, Milady," he said, with his Romulan sense of self assuredness.

The lady matched his demeanor and answered, "You have formed a habit of rescuing me, Commander."

"To my delectation, I assure you, Milady," he said, with a courteous bow of his head. Then, returning his attention to the captain, he said, "Capitaine Heranal, my sensors tell me that your ship is disabled. Perhaps you and your crew would care to be my guests on the _Greenclaw_ until a course of action is decided?"

"Thank you, Commander," Heranal said, forcing himself to swallow his pride.

Soon Heranal, O'Brien, and Guinevere materialized onto the Romulan transporter pad. A woman stood to the side, waiting to greet them. "I am Subcommander Donatra. Welcome aboard the Imperial Warbird _Greenclaw_," she said formally.

"Capitaine Jean-Baptiste Heranal," he introduced himself in the same tone. "And this is Chief O'Brien of Starfleet, and the Honorable Lady Guinevere Allaire, regent of Nua Breizh."

Donatra paused for a moment as she considered the female standing before her. "You are the human lady who has entranced my commander," she said, both curious and suspicious. _So DS9 isn't the only vineyard around_, observed O'Brien.

"That is not your concern, Madame," Heranal said defensively, though O'Brien guessed that the captain was not entirely certain whether the statement was true or false.

"On this ship," she said unbendingly, "everything is my concern. You and your crew will share quarters with our soldiers. This is a warship; we do not waste resources on luxuries here."

"Nor do we on our ships," the capitaine said proudly.

"You will also take your meals with the crew," Donatra continued, still not sure what to think of the capitaine.

"Très bien," he replied with a grin, "I am told viinerine is quite good."

Just then, Commander Bochra entered the transporter room. He and his first officer saluted each other, then Donatra left to return to the bridge.

"Capitaine Heranal…Lady Guinevere," the Romulan commander paid his respects to his visitors. O'Brien marked the barely concealed affinity between the commander and the lady. _You're a shameless snoop, Miles_, he laughed to himself.

"This is Chief Miles O'Brien," Heranal introduced, "You may remember him from DS9?"

"Of course," Bochra said, probably wondering what a Starfleet officer was doing on a Breton ship. He stood still for an a few seconds, uncertain if he should address the captain or the regent first. Lady Guinevere saved him from trying to guess.

"We are on an important mission, Commander," she said, "to muster my cousins to help fight the war."

"Ah, but you were attacked," he said, "and now that mission is in jeopardy."

"Yes," assented the lady. "Our rendezvous point with Lord Tierney is at Ximenta IX nearby."

"Then it would be my pleasure to bring you there, my Lady," Bochra enounced with a smile. "Subcommander Donatra, set a course for Ximenta IX," he ordered before Guinevere could ask.

"Yes, Commander," came the subcommander's reply. "We are detecting a Cardassian transmission from an unidentified area in that system, sir."

"Re-engage the cloak," he ordered, "I'll be there shortly."

"Thank you, Commander," Lady Guinevere said, pushing down her ego along with her captain.

"As you correctly pointed out, my Lady," Bochra said, relishing his position, "I am accustomed to rescuing you." _And as you pointed out, Commander,_ O'Brien told him silently, _you have fun doing it, too_.

* * *

They entered the bridge, and Donatra gave her report. "We have identified a recent warp signature, but no ships yet. Our cloak is still engaged. We will be at the specified coordinates in approximately fifteen minutes, sir."

"Very good, Subcommander," Bochra said as he took his chair. "Continue scanning."

"Cardassians," Guinevere said as she frowned, "despicable people."

Bochra raised an inquisitive eyebrow, as that was an unusual comment for her. "Are they any worse than the Vorta or the Jem'Hadar?" he asked with a shrug.

"They are the most artistically gifted people I know of," she stated sadly, "yet, more often than not, they use their talents to mar and destroy beauty rather than create it."

"Is that so?" the Romulan asked, his astonishment growing.

"Their poetry and artwork are exquisite, and their opera is second to none," she said passionately. "I listened to one recently. Never have I been so moved."

"I must admit I am astounded," he said, not exactly approving. "I never thought you were such an avid student of Cardassian culture." It was bad enough that she knew more about a few select elements of Romulan culture than he did. Usually, it was an enduring quality of hers. But in this case, he was slightly embarrassed by his ignorance. He had always thought that the Cardassians were uncivilized swine, not far above the Klingons. He abhorred them both, and had no interest in their cultures, or what he believed was a lack thereof.

"I make it a point to know my enemy, Commander," she said with a smile as she met his eyes. At once she turned away. Why was she all of a sudden afraid to look at him? She was uneasy, as though there was something she was wanted to tell him, but was reluctant to do so. That did not sit well with him.

Bochra felt his heart melt from her brief glance, however, and he found he could no longer be annoyed with her. It was easy to see that she still cared for him. His fears were childish and unfounded. Her explanation was a wise one, he realized. He smirked back at her. "Except for nasty little sycophants such as myself?" he teased.

Guinevere's alluring dark eyes widened as she looked back up, and her long eyelashes fluttered nervously. "Oh," she said blushing, "I'm afraid an apology is shamefully overdue, Commander." She was so lovely when the color came into her face like that.

"That is not necessary, Milady," he insisted. "You were understandably very angry with me."

She shook her head, "I should never have said that to you."

Bochra chuckled with delight. "My Lady, I was joking with you. I assure you I had quite forgotten the matter long ago." The truth was that her words that on day had hurt him deeply, but he was relieved that she no longer meant them. "I am immensely pleased that your opinion of me has changed," he said in a more quiet, but smitten voice. It was an understatement. Her opinion mattered to him more than anyone else's shallow views. Her concern for his feelings moved him, and he felt all the more drawn to her.

"Commander," Donatra reported, "We are entering orbit of Ximenta IX."

"Assume the standard ellipse," he ordered. "Report on the planet?"

"It is a barren world. Atmosphere is not breathable. However, there are habitat facilities on the surface. I am not detecting life signs," the science officer reported, "but there is an artificial field in place that interferes with our scanners."

"Hail them," the Commander ordered.

"No response, sir."

"They're not going to respond," said Guinevere. "I'll have to go down there."

Bochra did not like it, but he knew she was probably right. "Very well, my Lady," he abjured.

"Sir," Donatra piped up, "I strongly recommend that Lady Allaire have an escort." Bochra surmised that his first officer knew all about his feelings for Guinevere. Though it did not matter, he wondered if she had been listening to and observing them during their conversation a moment ago.

"I agree, Subcommander," he said, well aware of her intentions to carry out her suggestion herself. "You have command of the ship until I return."

Donatra opened her mouth to protest, but caught herself. "Yes, Commander," she said instead.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks to 0afan0 and BewilderedFemale for all of your inventive suggestions and ideas! **

"**A friend of Quark": Guinevere is not that kind of girl. Besides, you don't want Bochra to challenge him to a duel and kill him, do you? I have to admit, your suggestion is pretty funny, though.**

Bochra beamed down with Guinevere and six heavily-armed Romulan security guards. Naturally, Chief O'Brien and Capitaine Heranal had to come, too. The capitaine insisted on bringing six of his own men as well, and the commander agreed that it was a good idea. Bochra was taking no chances. Not only were their lives possibly at stake, but O'Brien knew that the commander equated the mission's success with his own personal success as far as impressing Lady Guinevere.

They found themselves in a vast cavern. It was so colossal that it contained a subterranean city, with a narrow strip of jungle surrounding it. The artificial light made the visitors forget momentarily that they were beneath the planet's surface. Guinevere informed them that the place had been built by the people the Nua Brezhians called the Ximenta. They were not humans, but were rather a friendly, less-sophisticated civilization that was in its beginnings of space exploration and colonization. They were fiercely proud of their achievements, and this was their first successful colony.

"Whoa," O'Brien breathed, taking in the wondrous sight.

"_Ah, la vache!"_ Heranal uttered. O'Brien would have expected a more colorful expression, but then he remembered that Guinevere was present. Since he was no longer on a foreign starship, the capitaine took the opportunity light a smoke. The Romulans observed the Breton warrior with interest. A barely audibly chuckle escaped from Bochra. He was already acquainted with some of the Nua Breizhian eccentricities, and was entertained by his soldiers' reactions to what was for them an alien culture.

They did not get far, however, before they were attacked. Out of the brush charged a company of Cardassians. The snap of a twig had warned the group of the bushwhack, and they were able to dash behind some large recently-fallen boulders to avoid getting shot. Bochra and O'Brien drew their respective weapons, while Guinevere pulled out her sword. Heranal whipped out a noteworthy bow, and sent arrows escalating into the direction of the attackers.

As O'Brien had been told, the Nua Breizhians were versant fighters, easily equal to the Romulans. Even the lady was good—very good—better than he was, he admitted. The chief could not help but admire the way she smoothly felled her adversaries. She and Bochra stood back to back, fighting their foe, and defending each other all the while. They made a brilliant team.

"It's just like San Mihael all over again, eh, Commander?" Guinevere said excitedly.

Bochra shook his head. "You and I have different recollections of San Mihael, Lady." She raised a querying eyebrow at him while parrying a blow aimed at her man from behind. "This time, you are unmistakably feminine," he specified with a yearning countenance. "I have said it before, and I will say it again: there is no other woman like you in the galaxy, Guinevere."

"What a coincidence," she winked, "I think the same way about you." How they could have an enraptured conversation like that one in the middle of an ambush was beyond O'Brien.

Meanwhile, the chief was doing some of his own zapping and banging next to Heranal. The Breton warrior rapidly shot countless arrows within a matter of seconds. They were making considerable headway.

"You have the eyes of a hawk, Capitaine," said O'Brien.

"So I am told, Chief," he grinned, still holding the cigarette in his teeth, and adroitly hitting his targets, sometimes without looking.

In what seemed like no time, all of the Cardassians were lying inanimate beneath their feet. Only one Romulan soldier had been struck down during the skirmish.

"We will advance to the city," Bochra commanded.

Continuing the trek, they entered the undergrowth. The jungle did not really feel like a jungle. There were no sounds—no birds, no insects, no animals—nothing. Only silence, O'Brien realized. The plants were real enough, though. Crossing the foliage did not take long, and they soon arrived at the edge of the city. There was still no sign of a greeting party. In fact, the city looked deserted.

Upon entering the city, they soon discerned the reason for the silence. All of the people were no longer alive. Every man, woman, and child had been massacred. There were signs of a conflagration all over the place. The calamity had happened fairly recently, though exactly how long ago was difficult to determine. No one spoke a word at first. Following their training, the soldiers fanned out to search for survivors.

"Where is Tierney?" Guinevere asked Bochra desperately. "He should have been here." The commander had no answers to give. He was spared from responding by Heranal.

"My Lady!" the Breton soldier called from the edge of the wall. He was staring down through a set of smashed doors at a lower level of the block. O'Brien and Bochra followed Guinevere to where Heranal was standing. To their alarm, they saw a band of fallen Nua Breizhian warriors. In their midst was Lord Tierney.

"They must have made their last stand here," said O'Brien morosely.

"And after they fell, the Ximenta civilians bolted like rabbits and were shot down," Heranal finished.

Guinevere abruptly marched off to the far side of the square. She leaned against a charred tree. Bochra made to follow her, but Heranal stopped him. "We must not linger here long, Heranal," Bochra warned.

"Give her a moment, Bochra," Heranal insisted, "she is a woman." The Romulan raised an eyebrow, but the Breton did not offer any further explanation.

After a brief interval, Guinevere returned. But her eyes were not red from crying as O'Brien had predicted. "We cannot stay here any longer," she said stoically, "the enemy may still be near. I would suggest that we return to the beam out point. We must go to the Basques quickly, before there are more atrocities such as this one."

"Agreed," Bochra said.

* * *

They returned to the ship, and Bochra escorted Guinevere to her quarters. It was the first chance they had to be alone together. He had so much he wanted to say to her, but now that the opportunity had come, he was speechless. Guinevere was understandably overcome by her brother's death, though she was trying to maintain control over her grief. It was a rather unexpected shock to Bochra as well, and he was not sure how to proceed.

"You have a fine ship," Guinevere said, breaking the silence. "You should be proud of her."

"I am," he said, "and I am gratified that you think so. I hope this room is acceptable to you. We do not have many distinguished guests on our warships. It is the best I can offer."

Guinevere looked down, "It's very chivalrous of you to give me your quarters, Bochra."

"We Romulans are a chivalrous people, as you know," he said, thrilled that she realized the gesture, though he had not intended to tell her. "And," he said, quite fondly, "you inspire me to be chivalrous."

Guinevere looked up sadly through her ebony lashes, "Thank you," she said quietly.

Bochra took a slow, deep breath. "I grieve with you," he said.

She nodded. Tears began rolling down her face. She turned her head away awkwardly, embarrassed by her lack of control. Bochra took her into his arms, and wiped her cheeks. He wished that he could make it all vanish. He felt powerless, he realized, though he did not let her know. "You are so brave," he reassured her. "Do not be ashamed. I do not think any less of you for weeping, and I will not tell anyone." He was in fact flattered by this sign of trust, though her tears distressed him. Guinevere buried her face in his uniform, and he tenderly stroked her long, dark hair.

"Seldom has an hour gone by when I have not thought of you," he said ardently, trying to divert her attention. "In every battle, I fought for you. I have written several letters. Unfortunately, we have been under silence orders, so I was not able to send them. Please forgive me, Guinevere."

"Of course," she said. She was still upset, and it seemed to Bochra that there could be another factor contributing to her woe besides her brother's death. He refrained from questioning her, however, as he was trying to draw her out of her unpleasant thoughts for the moment. She would tell him when she was ready.

"I have them here," he said, as he pulled a PADD out of a drawer. "Would you do me the honor of reading them?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure."

He lightly touched her cheek and drew her near. At the moment their lips touched, another tear fell, and she turned away. Why were his advances making her even more disconcerted? Subcommander Donatra's voice sounded above, "Commander, you are needed on the bridge."

"I'll be there shortly, Subcommander," he acknowledged once he tempered himself. He kissed her hand. "I will see you there when you are ready."

"Yes," she said, finally regaining her own control. He lingered for a moment longer, and then left to return to his duty.

Bochra marched briskly down the corridor, trying to release his frustration and clear his head before he got back to the command center. He never had been able to understand women. They were so complicated, no matter what their species, apparently. That was why he had before focused primarily on his career and ignored females altogether. Love was a waste of time, a distraction that would only hinder him from achieving his goals as a Romulan officer. And then he met Guinevere Allaire. It was only now that he fully grasped the part of that old saying about love burning.

* * *

It was a day's journey to the Basque's hideout, which was well past the Berezi system, on the edge of unexplored space. Heranal made contact with their leader, Lord Henri, the grandson of Guinevere's uncle, Ramiro Loiola.

"Lady Guinevere Allaire wishes to meet with you, my Lord," Heranal explained.

Loiola was not exactly trusting, especially since they had arrived in a non-Nua Breizhian ship. "Very well," he said, "but only the two of you. No guards."

"We have a Federation representative who will also come," said Heranal. Loiola narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"And I will also be there," Bochra butted in.

"Alright," he said, "but no one else."

They shimmered down to the surface and ended up in a large, castle-like hall. A massive banner, with the crest of the house of Loiola emblazoned on it, hung from the cathedral ceiling. Henri Loiola was sitting at a table, waiting. There were dozens of Basque warriors surrounding them. The lord stood. He was shorter than O'Brien had expected. He had blond hair that was cut just above his shoulders. His icy blue eyes observed them, like a cat that hunts its prey.

"Guinevere Allaire," he said, as though he was thinking aloud. "My grand-pere said that your mother was the most beautiful woman ever born of our people. But now that I behold you, I must disagree." He smiled—shamelessly, the chief thought.

"Thank you, Henri, you honor me," she said formally, with a curtsey.

"So what do you want?" he asked, getting right to the point. "You didn't come all the way here on a Romulan warbird just so I could complement you."

"I have come to heal the rift."

The Basque paused, taking in her words. "And what do you want in return?"

"Your help in the war with the Dominion," she said simply.

"How do I know the Federation will not hunt us down when the war is over?" he questioned suspiciously, gesturing his chin toward O'Brien. The Starfleet officer held up the PADD containing the pardon. Loiola observed him from the bottom up, but did not take the offering, as he had a fair estimation of what it contained.

"And what will you give me?" he asked, looking back at Guinevere.

"Your honor," she said simply, holding her head high.

Loiola again stopped to consider. Then he smiled thinly. "Alright," he nodded. "I'll arrange our marriage for tonight."

O'Brien heard Bochra inhale sharply next to him. The chief tensed, wondering what was going to happen. He could only imagine what the Romulan must have been going through. His sweetheart was going to marry another man, and he only just now found out about it. The gripping tension made the chief's stomach turn. He saw Bochra clench his jaw. His eyes were livid.

"No," Guinevere said firmly.

"What?" Loiola said, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

"This will not be a marriage alliance," she said. "We are within the forbidden degrees of kinship, you know that."

Loiola was in disbelief. "That can be dispensed. Our blood _must_ mingle to join our houses!"

"And so it shall," she said, drawing her sword and making an incision in her palm. She then held her hand out to him.

Now he was crestfallen. "You are not a man! You cannot make that kind of alliance!"

"I am the only person who can restore your honor" she insisted. "We can get a dispensation."

The Basque chuckled dangerously. "You realize you are sowing the seeds of civil war?"

"No," she averred. "Whichever of us produces an heir first will rule Nua Breizh, as is the custom. I swear, by my blood, to abide by it." The man stood there, staring at her as he stewed.

"Do you want your honor restored or not?" she demanded loudly. "Because this is the only way it will happen!" O'Brien and Bochra started, as they had never before heard her raise her voice. When he still did not reply, she carried on her taunts. "Are you just going to rot in this mud hole, wallowing in your shame, along with the rest of your family? How long will you persist in this disgrace? Until the Dominion hunts you down like the scarred rabbit that you are?" she shouted at him. "Is that the sort of man you are? My grandfather was right to banish you, you short, invertebrate weakling!"

Loiola whirled around and glared angrily at her. The Basques were many things, but they were not skulking cowards. Loiola shook his head as he drew a small dagger and cut his hand. Taking her hand, he squeezed until the crimson liquid dripped to the ground. "All of you are witnesses," he announced, holding up their hands. "The Clans of Loiola and Allaire are now one!"

"Death to the Dominion," Guinevere vowed.

"Death to the Dominion," Loiola echoed.

Guinevere released his hand, and stepped over to Heranal, who was holding a bandage from the medical kit for her. The chief could tell that the captain did not approve of what his lady had done, but he would of course say nothing.

"Whoever he is," Henri Loiola said, aware of her reason for rejecting him, "I hope he is worth it. Because if he isn't, I'll kill him." Bochra crossed his arms.

"Only if you get to him before Cahal," she said calmly, wrapping a bandage around her wound.

Heranal looked knowingly at O'Brien. The chief remembered all too well what the Breton thought about the Romulans. And he had a pretty good idea of what he thought about Bochra now that he had a confirmation that what Subcommander Donatra said was true.


	7. Chapter 7

"She has made a grave mistake! No good will come of it!" Capitaine Heranal said angrily.

"Why are you so upset?" O'Brien asked. "She loves Bochra. What's wrong with marrying the man she loves?"

"Love is all very well, when it does not ruin your life, or the lives of others," the Breton answered.

"What about you?" the Irishman pointed out. "Your marriage wasn't arranged. You married the woman you love, didn't you? Why can't she?"

"That is true, but I am not the regent of Nua Breizh," he scanned the corridor. The last thing he wanted was pointy ears dropping eaves. O'Brien knew him well enough by now to see that he wanted to light one up. "She was born to privilege, and with that comes responsibility," Heranal insisted.

"But they mingled blood," the chief countered, "and you said that was enough to form an alliance."

"Yes, but that kind of alliance isn't as strong as a marriage alliance. It is a secondary arrangement, a last resort when matrimony is not possible. Problems can, and usually do, arise in the future." He sighed heavily.

"You mean problems with inheritance?"

"Henri Loiola will not waste time in finding a wife," the Breton explained, "if he does not have one in mind already. It will not be long before he produces an heir. Love will cause Guinevere to lose her throne, mark my words."

"Bochra loves her, too; surely you can see that? Who's to say they won't produce an heir first?"

"But does he really love her?" Heranal was unyielding. "Oh, there is an attraction, yes; but has he given her any indication that he will marry her? Do you honestly think he will sacrifice his career for her?"

O'Brien then realized that Heranal had a valid point. Bochra, to the chief's knowledge, had not even proposed to Guinevere.

"Miles," he said, "do not make the mistake of thinking that I don't want her to be happy. She is my queen. I, like my father and his father before him, have pledged my life to her family's service. I would give my life for her without hesitation." He closed his eyes. "When she looks at Bochra, her very countenance glows with ecstasy. I know without a doubt that he is the first and only man she has ever truly loved. It is the same glow I see in my own wife's face when she smiles at me." He bit his lip, and his eyes shined with tears that he would not allow to fall. "Love is the most powerful force in the universe. You and I know that. I held Guinevere in my arms as a baby when she was baptized" he said passionately. "Do you think I don't want her to know love?"

"I can see that you do, Jean," O'Brien admitted. "I'm sorry…" was all that he could say. He thought of his own daughter, Molly, and he realized that Heranal saw himself as taking the place of Guinevere's deceased father. What would he do if his daughter had fallen for the wrong man? He preferred not to think about it.

* * *

Unperceived by Heranal and O'Brien, Bochra had veritably overheard their conversation. He leaned against the bulkhead and exhaled. He, too, was once again thrown through a loop by the latest development. So, Guinevere truly did love him. She had sacrificed everything for him, had placed her fate, and the fate of her people, in his hands. He had doubted her, he regretted. When he thought she was going to consent to marry Henri Loiola, his jealousy had very nearly consumed him.

"_Whoever he is, I hope he is worth it. Because if he isn't, I'll kill him."_ When he first heard those words, Bochra's first instinct was to challenge the Basque right then and there. And then it suddenly dawned on him why these human men who emulated the traditions of ancient Earth did not allow their women to participate in their wars. It was not because they thought females were inferior, as the Romulan had at first believed. Rather, it was because they so revered their women. They scarcely fell short of worshiping them, he realized. Henri Loiola had just been grievously spurned, but he was still willing to give his life for the honor of the lady who had rejected him. Humans, especially these Basques and Nua Breizhians, never ceased to amaze Bochra by their sense of honor and courage.

The question remained, what was he going to do about it? After witnessing the example of these Earth men, Bochra perceived that he had a great deal to learn about honor and chivalry. Perhaps Romulans were not as righteously superior as he had been led to presuppose. The human woman he loved had presently put her destiny at his disposal. She depended on him, needed him. He had told her in his letters that he would not disappoint her, and he was determined not to go back on his word.

But what of the war with the Dominion? What of his duty to his Empire, to his own people? His obligation was to help win the war, he reminded himself. Beyond that, it did not matter who, when, or if he married. If he did not survive the war, Guinevere's credence in him would have been in vain. In short, he would have failed her, the woman for whom he previously claimed he would do anything.

No, he would not, could not, permit that. He had gone too far for her. Guinevere was the illustrious lady who had conquered his heart. He could not deny that inevitability, even if he wished to, and he did not. He must not break her trust in him.

As he made his way down the corridor, his esteemed lady appeared. She halted, not knowing how to conduct herself. She was leery of him, for she was uncertain whether or not he believed she had intended to be unfaithful to him. Her eyes were downcast, and she moved to go in the opposite direction.

"Guinevere, wait," he called. She stopped, but she did not turn around. "Please do not think I am ignorant of what you have done for me. Be assured that I have no intention of abandoning you. I swear I will not."

Her beautiful amber eyes searched his, examining them for the slightest possible hint of deception. "I believe you, Bochra," she said, "and I love you."

"I know you do," he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. "I love you, too, _ma cherie amour_."

Guinevere smiled finally. "I see you're learning French," she remarked.

"Of course, among other things," he replied confidently. "You can speak Romulan, so it is only fair that I learn your language. Besides, most people on your planet do not speak Federation Standard, and I do not wish to be at a disadvantage again when I return."

"You're a quick study. I doubt you'll let that happen, _mon petit chou_," she winked playfully.

"Don't tell me what that means," he insisted, "I want to learn it myself." Guinevere laughed with delight. "We will arrive at DS9 soon," Bochra said when she stopped laughing. "As I recall there is an Earth restaurant on the Promenade, Spanish I believe. I would very much like to take you there, if that is agreeable to you."

"That sounds so romantic," her elegant lashes fluttered excitedly. "Oh, Bochra, I would love to!"

* * *

Miles O'Brien felt his entire body unwind as he blew the aromatic smoke up into the air. Heranal was right—this was the life. Even better, he was basking in the glory of being a hero. With his cigar in one hand, and a glass of scotch whiskey in the other, he was recounting the events of his recent mission to the other customers in Quark's. In addition to the crew and the regulars, there was a good number of Klingons and Romulans present who were also listening closely to the chief's account. Even Garak darkened the Ferengi's door to get the scoop.

"As your doctor and your friend, Miles," warned Bashir, "I feel it my duty to warn you of the ill-effects of smoking."

"Oh, come on, Julian," O'Brien retorted, "I'm not picking it up. Will you just let me saver the moment, please?"

"Don't worry, Julian," Keiko O'Brien assured him, "this is the _only_ time he's going to smoke if I have anything to say about it."

"See?" the Irishman said.

"Who cares?" said a maddened Quark. "I want to know what happened! Will you two let the man finish already?" There was a low rumble of agreement from the rest of the crowd in the bar.

"Yes!" Martok demanded loudly, slamming his fist down on the bar, "Tell us the tale!"

"So there we were," O'Brien dramatically repeated his introductory phrase, "We managed to destroy one of the ships, but there was still the other one to reckon with." He purposely took a drink to keep everyone in suspense. "We had lost warp drive, so we couldn't run—and well, the Nua Breizhians never run anyway—"

"Oui, that is correct!" some nameless Breton raised his glass. That produced a short round of laughter from the bunch.

O'Brien waved his hand at the man. "The torpedoes were spent, and the phasers were fried. 'Ram them,' says le capitaine, 'send them to hell!'" He mimicked Heranal's hand movements with his cigar. "I said to myself, 'Miles, this is the end.'"

"Glorious! Glorious!" roared the Klingons.

"Enough comments from the peanut gallery," O'Brien hushed them. "Then," he continued, "all of a sudden, a Romulan warbird decloaks from out of nowhere." He pointed to Ezri, "And you'll never guess who the commander was."

"Bochra!" Ezri giggled ecstatically into her cup.

"Yes," the chief smiled wickedly, "I thought Lady Guinevere was going to swoon. And when he saw her, the man was so blown away that he couldn't say a word for _at least_ five seconds!"

"Miles," Keiko moaned. She covered her face with her hand, embarrassed by her husband's shameless antics.

"What?" he feigned innocence, "I'm just telling the story. So anyway, Bochra takes us to the rendezvous with Lord Tierney. While we're down on the planet, we get ambushed by a band of Cardassians. You should see how the Bretons fight! The captain whips out this bow and starts firing arrows all over the place. And I'm telling you, he hit half of his targets without even looking at them! I myself took out about ten of 'em," he boasted.

"What about Lady Guinevere?" Leeta asked eagerly. "Is she as good a swordswoman as everyone says she is?"

"I heard that she disguised herself as a man so she could to do battle with the Jem'Hadar when they attacked Nua Breizh," Jake Sisko piped up.

"I heard that, too," Martok concurred. "She's a brave woman," the general raised his stein again. "Even if she is in love with a Romulan," he added with a sneer at toward the three Romulans at the other end of the counter. They threw dirty looks back at the Klingon general.

"Well," O'Brien admitted reluctantly, "I wouldn't want to go up against her myself." Another bout of laughter. He realized he was losing the spotlight.

Just then, Lady Guinevere and Capitaine Heranal appeared at the entrance and stopped in for a drink, at which point the laughter changed to applause.

"Silence!" said Martok, "I want to make a toast. To the courage and beauty of Lady Guinevere." The rest of the clientele cheered with approval. The bar vibrated from the tapping of hands and feet.

"Why, General," Guinevere said, "I do believe that is the nicest thing you have ever said to me."

"Allow me to buy you and le capitaine a drink," Bashir debonairly held a chair for her.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said. "Well, Quark, if this is the kind of reception I'm going to get, maybe I should come here more often."

"I think you should," the Ferengi grinned. It was a grin that reminded O'Brien of the Cheshire cat.

Heranal crossed his arms and shook his head at O'Brien. "You said there is a fire-suppression system, Chief?"

"He turned it off for the evening," Bashir supplied, "but only for the evening."

"Hell!" exclaimed the Breton, "Why didn't you tell me so?" He quickly produced a cigarette from his pocket stash. "Now, are you and the doctor here going to show me this dart game you told me about?"


	8. Chapter 8

"Don't forget, Lady Allaire, we have a game of whist this evening," Sisko reminded her. The official business of the parley had just been concluded, and she was walking over to the exit of the conference room. "I've asked Mr. Worf to be my partner, so prepare to be creamed."

Sisko remembered reading several literary references to whist in school, but he had never actually met anyone who played. As far as he had been concerned, no one played it anymore. The fact that the regents of Nua Breizh enjoyed it immensely did not surprise him in the slightest, however. Garak had discovered this nugget of information, and thought it would be amusing to see if Sisko could beat one of them in this ancient Earth game of cunning and perception. How did he get roped into these things? Still, as Garak so convincingly pointed out, it was another diversion that would get his mind off of other things he preferred not to think about.

"And I've asked Colonel Kira to be my partner," Lady Guinevere countered playfully.

Admiral Ross winced. "Oooh, do any of you mind if I come and watch? This should be good."

"Not at all." Sisko then addressed General Martok and the Romulans. "In fact, anyone who wants to come to Quarks at 1900 hours is welcome to come watch us beat these two lovely ladies."

"Gentlemen," Lady Allaire said as she stood by the doorway, "I hope the two of you have made peace with whatever gods you believe in, because your fate is now irrevocably sealed."

"We will see about that," said Worf.

The lady laughed as she made her way to the door. She was about to walk out when Commander Bochra entered. "My lady," he greeted with a smile and a nod.

"Commander," she acknowledged, also with a smile. He clearly had business to attend to in the conference room, so she knew that it was neither the time nor the place for any lengthy dialogue. "Colonel Kira and I are going to defeat Captain Sisko and Mr. Worf in a game of whist this evening at Quark's. Would you like to come and watch?"

Bochra chuckled, "I would enjoy seeing that."

"See you tonight, then," she said as walked past him.

Sisko saw that Bochra had been gripping his PADD tightly during his discourse with Lady Guinevere. He remained in the doorway and stared longingly at her while she walked away.

"Beautiful woman, isn't she?" Sisko said nonchalantly, though he was watching the Romulan's expression closely.

"That is an understatement," Bochra said, half to himself, without turning his head. Suddenly realizing what he had said and where he was, he started. "That is…I…" he stammered. He stood to attention. "Here is your report, Senator—_my_ report," he corrected himself, handing the PADD to his superior.

"Thank you, Commander," Letant said. He raised a brow, but gave no other indication of what his thoughts were.

* * *

The entire DS9 senior staff showed up at Quark's that evening. Martok, upon entering, loudly informed everyone that he would not miss the match for all the targs on Qo'nos. Bochra appeared as everyone had silently predicted. Garak walked in and gave Sisko an acknowledging gesture of his head.

"Care to place a wager, Commander?" Martok nudged Bochra. "My money is on Worf and the captain!"

"My money is on the ladies, General," the Romulan acquiesced, folding his arms.

The card game progressed rapidly. Sisko and Worf had not had much time to familiarize themselves with it after the captain issued the challenge. It was a still close game, however, and the spectators were on pins and needles as they watched the contest unfold.

The final round came, with four tricks to go. "And the rest," Guinevere said as she laid down her last four cards, "are mine." Sisko and Worf simultaneously groaned.

"I was really hoping that it was you who had those cards!" Kira said, now that she was allowed to speak, laughing heartily.

But Worf did not take it well. He was still upset over Jadzia's death, and in any case, he never liked to lose.

"You needn't take it so hard, Mr. Worf," Guinevere told him kindly, "I have been playing this game my entire life, after all. I believe I owe you a rematch," she offered.

"I pity you," said Worf resentfully.

"You pity me for _winning_?" she laughed.

"You humans have a saying: 'Lucky at cards, unlucky in love.' That is why I pity you."

The chatter from the spectators suddenly died down, and the lady's smile faded. "Luck had very little to do with your defeat, Mr. Worf," she said coolly. "Like all card games, there is the element of chance, of course. But the winner is the one who can make the most of the hand that is dealt." She abruptly stood. "But you are right. When it comes to matters of the heart, I have been unfortunate. And I dare say, so have you. Captain, Colonel, thank you for an entertaining evening." She left the bar and went out onto the Promenade.

"I'm disappointed in you, Worf," Admiral Ross said, as he left the bar to go after her.

"I expect a full apology first thing in the morning, Mr. Worf," Sisko ordered, tapping his finger on the table. With that, he rose and went to join the admiral.

Kira glared at Worf. "Was that _really_ necessary?"

"I merely spoke the truth," the Klingon scowled.

Bochra loomed next to the table. "Does your Klingon honor consist of insulting a lady?" he challenged indignantly.

"Lady?" Worf scoffed, "Ha! That wench is nothing but a Romulan's whore!" He threw his head back and laughed in contempt. As his head returned forward, it collided into Bochra's fist. The Klingon violently toppled to the floor with a thundering blast. Before he even had the chance to get up, Martok and three other Klingons were on top of Worf's assailant. The Romulans rallied around their commander and charged against the Klingons.

One thing led to another, and it was not long before nearly all of Quark's customers were involved in the brawl. Those who could not defend themselves either got out of the way, or were swallowed into the affray. Dabo girls shrieked and hid under the gaming tables as bodies were hurled over them. Glass was shattering everywhere. Quark and his staff rushed around like the axiomatic decapitated chickens, taking wagers from the few remaining non-combatants before security would inevitably arrive to end the skirmish.

It had been a long time since there was a Klingon/Romulan brawl in the establishment, and this one was going to top the last one by a landslide. The prolonged and pinned-up tension between the Klingons and Romulans had finally exploded into one nasty fracas.

* * *

"What were you thinking, Commander?" Senator Letant demanded. "I understand the Klingon jackal provoked you, but did you have to be the one who dealt the first blow?"

"He insulted Lady Allaire, Senator" Bochra answered from inside the brig cell.

"Why does that concern you?"

"She is…a friend, Senator. I could not just stand by and do nothing," he said passionately.

"Meaning you have feelings for her," Letant specified his long-held surmisal.

"…yes, Senator," the commander admitted.

"I see," he said coolly. He left the holding area to go speak with Constable Odo.

When he entered the security office, the lady in question was there. She was in a heated discussion with Captain Sisko. Letant smiled to himself. Lady Allaire was a formidable woman. It would be intriguing to see her fiery spirit fully manifest itself, especially against Sisko. Though Letant was not attracted to her himself (he was happily married to a retired Praetor), he could understand why Bochra, being the young and idealistic military officer that he was, would find her appealing. She was the regent of a planet, after all. Bochra was an aspiring man to set his sights on her.

"I demand you release him at once, Captain!" the lady said lividly, though she was careful not to raise her voice.

"I can't do that, Lady Allaire," Sisko replied imperviously.

"But Mr. Worf has been released. Is that just?"

"I will deal with Mr. Worf. Besides, Bochra threw the first punch, which makes him responsible."

"This is an outrage! Really, Captain, it is a prime example of the problems my people have had with the Federation from the start: double standards," she pointed an accusing finger at Sisko. "Are all of your Starfleet officers in the habit of insulting foreign dignitaries?"

"He apologized," Sisko said, though it was clear that he was going to lose the debate.

"And I have rejected his apology! And I will reject any further apologies until Bochra is released and all charges are dropped."

"Lady—" Sisko tried.

"I find it astonishing that the only person to stand up for my honor after I left was—not one of your personnel—but a Romulan. Yet, _he_ is the one in that cell," she gestured behind her to the brig, "while the heel who insulted me roams about the station freely. What kind of warped sense of justice do you people have, anyway? I hope you are not still under the delusion that we will join the Federation when this war is over, Captain."

Letant chuckled to himself. It was entertaining to see the great Benjamin Sisko humbled by his own Federation hypocrisy. "I believe the lady has a point, Captain," he said, seizing the opportunity. "I, too, cannot see the justice in this situation. Perhaps Admiral Ross will have a different perspective?"

"Alright," Sisko surrendered. He was boiling just under the surface. She had been the cause of a serious incident on his station. All of his senior officers, as well as several prominent business people had been drawn into the scene. Even Morn had gotten involved. "I'll release him and have the charges dropped, but on two conditions. One: all charges against Mr. Worf are also to be dropped. Two: his apology is to be formally accepted."

The lady resigned with a nod.

"That is acceptable," Letant agreed.


	9. Chapter 9

"Oh, Bochra," Guinevere said devotedly, "I am honored by what you did. It was so valorous of you."

"I never liked that Klingon beast," Bochra sneered. "And when he insulted you…well, honor had to be satisfied," he told her, getting lost in her eyes. "He was fortunate that security arrived when they did, otherwise I would have killed him," he said, completely veracious. "And, as you Bretons say, 'to hell with the consequences.'"

She eyed the bruise on his cheek. "You really should get that looked at," she said, visibly worried.

"Later," he brushed it off. He had endured much, much worse. "I want to eat dinner with you."

They were sitting in a Spanish tapas restaurant. It was the only Earth restaurant on Deep Space Nine, as most visitors to the station had more exotic palates. The owner was a Bolian who had once visited Spain, and had fallen in love with the place and its cuisine. So he decided to open his own restaurant, right before the war broke out. He ended up staying because the copious amounts of people who passed through the station kept his business booming.

At this late hour, however, the commander and his lady were the last remaining customers. The dining room was dimly lit by candles, which were nearly spent. Off in a shadowy corner, two guitarists were quietly performing romantic Spanish ballads and serenades.

_Mi amor, lovely and fair_

_Mi amor, tell me you care_

_My heart is a song from afar,_

_Timed to the beat of a gypsy guitar_

_What's in store?_

_What's fate's design?_

_Mi amor, say you'll be mine_

_Will you be mine?_

Guinevere giggled girlishly as she sipped her sangria. Bochra poured himself another glass. Since he was a Romulan, it took more alcohol to inebriate him than it did his human lady. The sangria was flavorful, but not very strong compared to what he usually drank. Considering what he was planning to do that evening, he would need to be at least slightly intoxicated.

The Bolian chef, Ujye was his name, brought out their dinner. As neither of them had been able to choose from the extensive menu, they adventurously decided to throw themselves on the whim of the cook.

Ujye enthusiastically described their dinner, kissing his fingers in imitation of Earth's culinary artists. "We have here _pincho de pollo y chorizo_," he indicated the skewers of chicken and chorizo, "which have been marinated in garlic and herbs. And this," he placed the second plate on the table, "is _gambas a la plancha_, sautéed shrimp, with herbs and olive oil."

Bochra was taken aback. "I have no idea what any of that means, but it sounds impressive…"

Ujye eyed him seriously. "It _is_ impressive, _Comandante_," he maintained, "It is a masterpiece! You will not regret your decision."

"I believe it," Bochra grinned briefly at Guinevere, and then he looked back to the chef. "Pray, continue."

"Next is _champiñones a la plancha_, mushrooms marinated in white wine and parsley sauce," Ujye was practically dancing with glee. "An olive tapenade, and _queso de cabra al horno_, goat cheese baked in a tomato sauce—my particular specialty," he kissed his fingers again. "And finally," he set down the last dish, "_crespelle de feta y puerros_,

crepes with feta cheese, leeks and basil."

"I hope you're hungry, '_Comandante_,'" said Guinevere with a smirk.

"_Buen provecho_!" Ujye enunciated in a Spanish accent before scurrying back to the kitchen.

"This reminds me of your home," Bochra grinned, "the cuisine is similar, yes?"

"Spain is located right next to France," Guinevere explained, meeting his eyes as she dipped a piece of bread into the goat cheese. "And tapas is a Basque tradition anyway. The land of the Basques was surrounded by both of those countries."

For some odd and inexplicable reason, Bochra found that to be quite funny, and he chuckled, "Ah! Of course! That makes perfect sense!" He was enjoying himself immensely.

It was all in all romantic the way their fingers kept brushing against each other while they scooped the food onto the slices of bread. For the most part, they were silent during the meal, though they did exchange many smiles and a few brief comments about the chef's selections. When they finished, the Bolian re-appeared.

"And now, dessert," he announced, as though the universe revolved around his creations. "_Pan con chocolate_, slices of a baguette with chocolate, lightly dusted with cayenne and paprika. I'll be right back with some Spanish coffee," he said quickly.

He returned with another cart, upon which were glasses, as well as an assortment of ingredients. For once without a word, he mixed the liqueurs together into the glasses and set them ablaze. He vigorously sprinkled the cinnamon and sugar over the flames, sending dramatic sparks into the air. Extinguishing the fire, he added the coffee and cream, and theatrically served it.

As he finished the last sip of his coffee, Bochra felt that his skin was beginning to tingle. He felt warm inside. If the alcohol was affecting him to this extent, Guinevere was assuredly quite intoxicated. _Finally_, he thought, _it is now the right time…_ He took a deep breath. "Guinevere, would you honor me with a dance?" he asked.

Guinevere laughed in disbelief. "I thought Romulans didn't dance." Then she frowned when he held out his hand, "Are you serious?"

"For you, Milady," he said, prepared for her skepticism, "I will make an exception. I assure you, I am quite serious."

"Yes, Bochra," she said with an undaunted countenance, "I will. Do you like the waltz?"

The Romulan grinned mischievously, "Actually, I had something more…vivacious in mind. I assume you are up to the challenge?" he said, cocking a devilish brow.

She accepted the dare. "I can handle anything you can dish out, Commander," she said. Bochra chuckled and went to make his request to the musicians, who were pleased to accommodate him. He then returned and led her to the center of the room. The sober part of him was grateful that the chef and the musicians were the only other people around. They stood vis-à-vis, an arm's length apart.

"I will keep in mind your distain for Earth dancing," she poked playfully. Bochra again raised an eyebrow and bowed from the waist as the music began. Guinevere's eyes widened in surprise at Bochra's selection. One of the guitarists was playing a Spanish waltz. _The Gypsy from Andalusia_, she recollected.

Bochra put his hand on her waist, and they pivoted, each holding the other's long, fixed stare. Still gripping her hand, he held up their arms in a polished arch. Twirling her slowly and elegantly to the time of the music, he repeated the unhurried steps for the remainder of the solo, ending with another rotation. The pace of the music soon accelerated into a vigorous flamenco tempo, and he whirled her, faster and faster, without missing a beat. The airy layers of Guinevere's skirt spiraled around her.

"When did you learn to dance like this?" she asked in her amazement.

"I have been watching instructional videos from the recently accessible Federation database," he gloated, as though it was a trifle matter.

Guinevere giggled. "I must say, I never expected this. You've impressed me, Bochra."

"That_ is_ my intention," he said with a proud, seductive smile, as he promenaded with her around the room. He could see that she was indeed swayed, and why not? He was not only dancing, but dancing exceptionally well. Those long weeks of making an utter fool of himself in his quarters while patrolling along the Cardassian border had paid off at last. The drinks likewise played a significant part.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, pulling her toward him.

"Yes," she said in expectant suspense. Gripping both of her hands, he suddenly dipped her backward, and returned her upright.

"Have I ever told you that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever beheld?" Now, the sangria was noticeably manifesting itself. He felt he could do anything.

"I can't seem to recall that you have," she wrinkled her forehead, "but I'm not exactly thinking very clearly at the moment."

The Romulan laughed. The music slowed to its beginning theme. Bochra's expression then became serious, and he stopped. "You do still love me, don't you, Guinevere?" he asked forlornly.

"You know I do," she said in surprise.

"And do you consider yourself unfortunate because of it?" The pain he was feeling from her words that were spoken to Worf earlier that evening was evident.

"Bochra," she said, after she realized what was troubling him, "two men have already died horribly because they loved me. I suppose I am afraid the same thing will happen to you."

"That does not stop me from loving you," he said passionately, gripping her upper arms. "Is not dying for a lady considered to be one of the highest honors among your people? I would die a thousand deaths for the chance to be with you, Guinevere!"

"Oh, Bochra…" she said breathlessly.

He resumed dancing again. "You told me that when I asked you to marry me, you would say yes," he said, again emboldened by the livening of the music.

"And you said that you would not ask me until the war is over," she replied, looking at him longingly.

"I was wrong," he breathed. "We may not have much time, but perhaps we should make the most of the cards," he said as he embraced her. "Our hand has been dealt, Guinevere. Do you dare to play it with me?" He ardently held her face in his hands. His entire world was hanging on how she would respond. Would she accept him?

Guinevere trembled as she gave her answer. "Yes," she said, "I dare."

Bochra kissed her passionately in his elation, tenderly running his fingers through her silky, dark hair. His heart raced when he felt her hands move up his back as she returned his affection. Time itself seemed to slow, and he wished that this moment would never end…

* * *

On the upper level of the Promenade stood Garak and Jake Sisko. They had been watching the couple through the windows for most of the evening, though they were too far away to hear the words that were being spoken.

"Whoever said Romulans couldn't dance," Jake smirked at Garak victoriously.

"I stand corrected, on _that_ point," Garak acknowledged with a nod, "but you still got the rest of it wrong."

"I'll say one thing I've noticed about the Romulans," said Jake, "they never do anything halfway."

"And neither do the Nua Breizhians," Garak responded discerningly.

**(I don't own the _Mi Amor_ song from Disney's Zorro, or _The Gypsy from Andalusia_. **

**And just in case you're wondering, the answer is yes, I actually had that very dinner a few days ago, and I just had to write about it!)**


	10. Chapter 10

"Where's your sister?" Admiral Ross asked.

Lord Cahal Allaire waved his hands in the air. "On a date," he said disapprovingly as he took his chair.

"Oh really?" Ross asked with great interest, even though they were about to start an afternoon meeting, "With whom?"

"You'll never guess," the Breton lord shook his head. A pin dropping on the floor would have been easily audible.

"Commander Bochra," Sisko chimed in after a moment, since no one else ventured a stab at it. All present at once turned to look at Sisko in wonderment.

"Yes," Cahal confirmed unenthusiastically. "And did you hear they're getting married tomorrow morning? Since it's an affair of state for Nua Breizh, I'm inviting all of you to attend."

The revelation was a surprise to everyone, including Sisko. "Now I didn't see_ that_ part coming," the captain admitted.

"Did you know, Senator?" Ross asked Letant.

"I was informed this morning," he replied evenly. As usual, Letant was a difficult man to read. It was almost as hard as trying to read a Vulcan.

"He marched into my ship this morning and asked for her hand," said Cahal. The silence continued, as the assemblage waited to hear more information. "I know he's been interested in her for a long time, ever since he rescued her from the Cardassians, over six years ago, I think. I didn't dare refuse him," he shrugged in defeat. "Guinevere would never speak to me again."

The silence awkwardly continued. It was very uncharacteristic of both the Klingons and the Romulans to have absolutely nothing to say on any subject. The fact that there had been an "occurrence" in Quark's the night before made the whole affair that much more bizarre.

"Let me be the first to offer my congratulations," Admiral Ross broke the silence, shaking Cahal's hand. "I think we should _all_ attend the wedding," he looked around as he spoke. "We should look at this as an opportunity to put aside our differences and come together as friends rather than merely allies of convenience."

Sisko could not have agreed more. "Well said, Admiral."

* * *

**Coming soon…**

_The Tempest V: War Burns_

The Cardassians had them surrounded. "Drop your weapons," the Gul commanded.

"We will never surrender to the Dominion," Bochra fearlessly declared. He was well aware that he had just sealed his doom. But his wife was in all likelihood dead anyway, so what did it matter?

"This time," said Geordi LaForge at his side, "I agree with you, my friend."

"Perhaps they would be more inclined to surrender if you just asked them politely," suggested a feminine voice from the shadows. Bochra's heart stopped. Hers was the dearest voice in the galaxy to him. His jaw tightened as Guinevere strolled up to the Gul and put her hand on his shoulder. She was appareled in an uncharacteristically extravagant dress. He furiously noted that it was a bit skimpy. Gaudy jewelry jingled all about her.

There she was, the lady Bochra had risked his life for, won battles for—including the struggle for her people's freedom. He had killed for her, disobeyed direct orders from his superiors for her. Assuming he even survived this mission, his career was over. She was the woman he idolized, his bride. She belonged to _him_. And it was evident that she was now this Cardassian _veruul's_ mistress.

"'Ask them politely?'" the Gul gawked.

"Yes," she said casually, as though she were suggesting which utensil to use at the dinner table. "You know how I detest bloodshed," she pouted coyly.

"Alright," the Cardassian sneered, "_you_ make them surrender, if you can."

Guinevere turned up her nose to the Gul. Then her expression softened when her gaze fell upon her husband. "Come, come, Commander," she said enticingly, "surely this isn't worth your dying?" What was she doing? Did she seriously think he would even consider allowing himself to be captured?

"Better to die fighting than to be a prisoner," Bochra glared at her. How could she betray him like this? Did she have any idea of the agony she was inflicting on him?

"But why die today, when you can live to fight tomorrow?" Her ravishing amber eyes pleaded to him. They were speaking to him, telling him that she had a reason for her dastardly request. She had a plan, he understood all of a sudden, and she needed him to cooperate. But could he trust her?

"I suppose I cannot deny that your suggestion has merit, especially since it comes from such an enchanting woman," Bochra said, playing along, putting himself and his companions into her hands. "Put down your weapons," he ordered the others. He desperately hoped that he was doing the right thing.

**(Thank you 0afan0, for the idea of putting a preview at the end of the story.)**


End file.
